


in these low lights yellow eyes look green

by haleofStilesheart



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, M/M, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier meet another witcher after a rough contract; a witcher who has his eyes set on Jaskier, much to Geralt’s displeasure.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 416





	in these low lights yellow eyes look green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> Prompt fill for the request of “Hey pal, their eyes are up here.”  
> This is my first (finished) Witcher fic so I hope you enjoy it even though the ending kinda got away from me so I apologize if it’s a little rushed!

His name is Kazimír, and Geralt hates him almost immediately.

He's a witcher, a Cat, which is reason enough for Geralt to instantly dislike him and most everything about him. At least he's not a fucking Viper.

He's apparently found himself in the same little backwater Temerian town as Geralt and Jaskier while chasing the same rumor of a nekker nest that had drawn them to the area, retiring to the only inn in a fifty mile radius for a pint after finding the rumors baseless. Warnings from mothers hoping to curb their wayward children's penchant for wandering too far spawning into whispers two towns over of a nonexistent infestation.

He's tall and lean, like most Cats, more wiry than a Wolf, body better suited for speed and flexibility rather than brute strength and stamina. His swords are strapped to his back and he has a small array of knives strapped to his leg in a holster on his thigh, another dagger tucked into his right boot.

His hair is the color of rich burnished copper, pulled up into a topknot at the crown of his head, the sides of his head shaved close to the scalp in an undercut. He has a short beard a shade or two darker than his hair, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones. There are scars raked across his left cheek in the unmistakable shape of claw marks of some sort, extending from the bridge of his nose all the way across his cheek and down the side of his neck.

His dark leather jerkin and underlying tunic were undone to reveal a wide swath of his chest, dusted with dark auburn hair and a scattering of smaller scars. The silver of his medallion is a sharp contrast to the warm tones of his skin, making the cat's head stand out more prominently. His ears are pierced with multiple small gold rings.

His eyes glitter in the candlelight of the inn like polished topaz. They haven't left Jaskier since he'd walked into the room.

After trudging through an overgrown swamp for three hours in search of the rumored nekkers, only to instead stumble onto a water hag that was none too pleased about having her peace disturbed, all Geralt wanted was a hot bath and some ale. The last thing he wanted was to deal with some obnoxious, ostentatious Cat who couldn't keep his fucking eyes or hands to himself.

The town's alderman had been magnanimous enough to reluctantly fork over a measly handful of coin when Geralt had brought him the water hag's head, though not without first arguing that since no one knew of the hag's presence and therefore there was no reward offered Geralt had no right to claim compensation. After a withering glare from Geralt and some excellent points made by an increasingly irritated Jaskier about how eventually the water hag would have started preying on townsfolk and necessitated a bounty sooner or later, the alderman had relented.

It had given Geralt enough coin to order himself a bath while Jaskier insisted upon paying for their room and a couple of hot meals. With Jaskier's pockets still full after several lucrative performances in other small towns littered across the Temerian countryside and the bard in a generous mood, Geralt had led them to the inn's tavern that took up most of the first story, intent on allowing Jaskier to buy him a drink.

The moment they approach the long L-shaped bar, a pair of yellow eyes are on them, or more specifically, Jaskier. Kazimír, or Kaz, as he insists Jaskier call him, immediately makes his way over to them, introducing himself with a charming smile and setting an overly familiar hand on Geralt's shoulder like they're old friends.

They're decidedly not. Evidenced by the other witcher himself when he cheerily announces, "Ah! I finally meet the legendary White Wolf!"

But Geralt's clearly not who he's interested in talking to. His eyes never leave Jaskier. There's a smarmy grin stretching across his face, his sharp canine teeth glinting in the low light. Geralt's are bigger.

He could rip the Cat's throat out with nothing but his teeth, could easily overpower him and send him scurrying away like a frightened pussy. Geralt would like nothing more than to do exactly that, his bath be damned.

But he doesn't, solely for Jaskier's sake. He seems perfectly amenable to chatting with the other witcher, chattering away about their encounter with the water hag, embellishing the exact details Geralt expects him to. Besides, it would be a shame to get kicked out of the town's only inn, especially when their room's already been paid for.

For a while, Geralt's content to stand there and nurse his tankard of ale while listening to Jaskier recount the evening's earlier events, resisting the juvenile urge to puff out his chest and preen when Jaskier starts waxing poetic about how brave and gallant Geralt had been. But as Jaskier's story goes on, Geralt can see that the attention of his audience is waning.

Well, not waning exactly, more like wandering.

Kazimír is standing, lounging indolently with his elbow propped on the back of a nearby bar stool, the picture of arrogant relaxation as Jaskier rambles on. His eyes have strayed from Jaskier's face down to his chest where his doublet is open and his chemise is visible, the embroidered neckline low enough to reveal a peek at his chest and the dark hair there. It's less of a conscious sartorial decision and more a consequence of the water hag slicing off a few buttons when she'd attempted to gut him but Kazimír is leering at it like Jaskier undid his outermost layer solely for him.

Jaskier starts to trail off. For all his tendency to never shut up, he can tell when an audience isn't receptive to his performance, clearly noticing the downright predatory way Kazimír is looking at him. He doesn't say anything, never one to defend himself despite always leaping to Geralt's defense over the most insignificant of slights, but Geralt can tell he's starting to grow uncomfortable, can see it in the way his fingers start fidgeting and his shoulders start to hunch the slightest bit.

Jaskier may be hesitant to stand up for himself at times but Geralt has no such qualms and before he knows what he's doing the words are halfway out of his mouth.

"His eyes are up here," Geralt growls, teeth clicking when he closes his mouth. It's the first thing he's said since Kazimír had introduced himself, his voice rough.

It works. Kazimír immediately straightens up, a startled expression flitting over his face, making him look like a chastised kitten when he realizes he's been caught shamelessly ogling the bard.

Jaskier, too, jumps at the unexpected comment, embarrassment flooding his scent as color rises to his cheeks, fingers still fidgety. But Kazimír, the slimy smug bastard, is a quick thinker and rather than apologize or turn tail and slink away in defeat, simply smiles beatifically and says, "And what lovely eyes they are!"

Geralt rolls his eyes when Kazimír starts comparing them to sapphires. The idiot doesn't even know his jewels.

Jaskier's eyes are too light to be sapphires. They're more like aquamarine or larimar, jewels reminiscent of the sea, of the coast where Jaskier hails from and often speaks about with such wistfulness in his voice.

But the line works beautifully despite its inaccuracies, Jaskier flushing for an entirely new reason as he laughs coyly, eyelashes fluttering. He's clearly flattered, the compliment washing away his previous discomfort as though it had never existed, Kazimír's crass leering seemingly forgotten entirely.

With Kazimír's blatant ogling seemingly cowed, for the time being, at least, Geralt doesn't say another word, just continues drinking his ale and keeping his eyes on the other witcher. Jaskier may be quick to forgive but Geralt isn't quite as gracious, intent on gauging the Cat's eyes out if they go wandering again.

Kazimír and Jaskier continue talking as Geralt sips from his tankard and eats the bowl of stew the barkeep brings him, trading tiny snippets of stories about monsters and contracts and annoying aldermen they'd encountered on their travels, laughing about old scars and the stories behind them. Geralt's nearly finished his drink when Kazimír lays his hand over one of Jaskier's on the bartop and leans in too close for Geralt's comfort. He tenses as he watches, ready to scruff the other witcher like a kit should he press too far.

Kazimír's gaze drops to Jaskier's lips for a long moment before meeting his eyes again, a renewed flush heating Jaskier's face. Smirking handsomely, Kazimír has the audacity to softly suggest, "Perhaps you should write a song about me."

The mere thought nearly makes Geralt snarl, something dark and possessive rearing up inside him. It's not as though Jaskier's never written about other witchers, just a year ago he'd written a ballad about Eskel's fling with a succubus, rhapsodizing about his charm and charisma, though he'd omitted Eskel's name at his request.

But that was different. That was Jaskier writing an epic about defeating a succubus, about Geralt's brother. Whatever songs Kazimír had in mind were of a different breed, the type of bawdy songs Jaskier only sang late at night in taverns or at particularly boisterous banquets, the kind dripping with innuendo and euphemisms for cocks and cunts.

Geralt can no longer hold his tongue, mutters something rude and thoroughly uncomplimentary under his breath as he raises his tankard to down the last dregs of his ale. He intends for the words to still be audible to a witcher. Doesn't intend for a too-observant-for-his-own-good bard to also hear them. But alas.

"Geralt," Jaskier says a touch sharply, turning to face him fully. He frowns, lips pinched together in an unhappy pout, and reaches over to pluck something off one of Geralt's spaulders. It's either a willow leaf or one of the water hag's entrails, Geralt can't be entirely certain in the low light. Jaskier makes a face and lets whatever it is fall to the floor. "You should go upstairs and bathe, it'd be a shame if you wasted your hard-earned coin on a bath you didn't even get to enjoy. And perhaps it'll remedy this foul mood you're in."

Geralt grits his teeth, feeling like a scolded child. Sent away to take a bath, next Jaskier will threaten to deprive him of dessert.

"I'll stay here with Kaz, regale him with more stories of your heroic deeds," Jaskier continues, patting Geralt's chest rather patronizingly. He sends him an encouraging smile, inclining his head towards the staircase. "I'll be up in a bit."

It's a dismissal. A clever one, disguised as him looking out for Geralt's best interests, but it's a dismissal nonetheless.

Geralt hums in reply, setting his empty tankard down on the bar just a touch too hard. He glares at Kazimír over Jaskier's shoulder, silently promising the other witcher that if any harm comes to the bard he'll take it out of his hide. Kazimír just smiles like the cat that got the canary, fluttering his fingers in a patronizing wave while bidding him goodbye, "Don't wait up!"

Geralt pays for his meal and ale himself rather than let Jaskier cover the measly cost, purely out of principle, before trudging over to the staircase. As he heads upstairs, he sees Kazimír lean in close again to whisper something in Jaskier's ear that makes him blush and swat at Kazimír's chest, his familiar scent suddenly inundated with arousal.

It takes all of Geralt's willpower to keep from throttling the audacious kit right then and there. He continues upstairs to their room, soaked through to the bone and irritated beyond words.

It shouldn't matter to him who Jaskier fucks. He's a grown man, he can make his own decisions about who to take to bed, though his ill-advised choice of bed partners often leads to him being chased off by cuckolded husbands or scandalized wives.

It shouldn't matter to him that Jaskier seems keen on fucking the other witcher. But it does and Geralt hates himself for it. Hates that his objections to the idea are based more on his irritation at the fact Jaskier wants to fuck a witcher who isn't him than his irritation at how obnoxious the other witcher is.

Geralt kicks his boots off and tosses them across the room, hoping the small bit of violence slakes the anger inside him. It doesn't.

A bath has already been drawn for him, the water’s gone cold in the time he'd been stuck watching Kazimír flirt with Jaskier. He reheats it with Igni then sheds his armor and clothes to sink into the copper tub.

He quickly scrubs himself clean, washing off the dirt and grime and ichor clinging to his skin, resolutely  _ not _ thinking about what Jaskier and that fucking Cat were doing at the moment. Prays he won't have to hear it the way he can hear the grunting and moaning of a couple in the room next door.

He doesn't linger in the tub the way he has grown accustomed to once he's clean enough to simply enjoy the warmth and comfort of a well-deserved bath, instead climbing out the moment he deems himself sufficiently clean. What's the point when there's no one there to wash his hair?

* * *

It's not long after that he hears Jaskier at the door, the pattern of his heartbeat as familiar to him as his own. Lying in bed, Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that Jaskier isn't so brazen as to bring Kazimír back to their room, doesn't know what he'll do if Jaskier expects him to vacate the room so he can fuck another witcher.

Except that Geralt does know. Knows he'd bite his tongue and go downstairs to sleep in the stables with Roach, painfully aware of the fact that he has no claim on Jaskier, no reasonable expectation of fidelity.

He breathes deeply. Braces himself for the inevitable request to leave.

But as he breathes in to steel himself, he realizes that he doesn't smell Kazimír, just Jaskier. He's alone. It's enough of a surprise to have Geralt's eyes spring open.

Jaskier's closing the door behind himself, carefully setting his beloved lute down on the armchair by the window. He lets out a long, weary sigh, sounding exhausted, as though he had been the one to slay a water hag.

His mouth twists up into a wry grin when he notices that Geralt's awake, eyes smoldering in the dark like twin embers. Voice conspiratorially low, he laughs, "Melitele's  _ tits! _ Have you ever met such an arrogant witcher? School of the Cat, my ass! The man's a certified pig! Can you imagine? Me, writing songs about...about  _ him?!" _

Though confused, Geralt can't resist smiling as Jaskier continues complaining about the other witcher, throwing out words like _presumptuous_ and _insolent_ and _horny_ _tomcat_ as he casually undresses, stripping out of his damaged doublet and tight trousers in favor of slipping into his favorite sleep shirt, a white linen shirt that technically belongs to Geralt. Not that he would ever complain about Jaskier sleeping in his clothes.

Voice rough, Geralt can't resist speaking up. "Thought you liked him. Figured you two would... Y'know."

He can't bring himself to say fuck. Surprising considering the word is one of the most frequently used in his lexicon.

"Oh, he certainly wanted to, as I said, he acts like a bloody tomcat in spring, all that pawing and yowling!" Jaskier emphatically returns, setting aside his ruined doublet with a disappointed look. Sighing again, he sits on the edge of the mattress, facing the headboard, one leg tucked under him. "And I won't lie, I wasn't exactly averse to the idea of a tumble or two."

The admission makes Geralt frown, hands curling into fists in the sheets. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, looking down at where his hands are toying with the frayed hem of his borrowed shirt. "But no. Told him I had much better things to attend to."

"Such as?" Geralt presses, though he's not entirely certain why. Perhaps his jealousy has made his tongue looser or perhaps it's just his tendency to indulge Jaskier at nearly every turn.

_ “Such as  _ finding out what put you in such a horrid mood," Jaskier counters, meeting Geralt's eyes with a furrow of his brow. Geralt attempts to defend himself but Jaskier continues on, "You were grumpier than usual, the way you are when something's bothering you. Are you hurt? Did the water hag get you? Why didn't you say anything? Let me get your bag!"

Jaskier's already halfway to his feet by the time Geralt grabs his wrist, keeping him from going any further. Jaskier frowns at him, reeking of worry.

"I'm not hurt," Geralt assures him, releasing his wrist. He rolls onto his back, looking up at the exposed wood beams of the ceiling. He grits his teeth, hoping against hope that he won't have to elaborate.

"Well, then what had you acting like a bear with a sore head?" Jaskier asks, looking at him expectantly. "Something must be amiss for you to act like such a brute. So what is it? Stone in your shoe? Shitty ale? Lack of a local brothel? Melitele knows it must be something serious, at one point I thought you were going to rip poor Kazimír's head clean off!"

The sound of his name has Geralt growling.

"Him," Geralt bites out, snapping the word between clenched teeth.

"What?" Jaskier says, looking and sounding utterly confused.

"It was him.  _ Kazimír,"  _ Geralt admits, spitting out the name like something bitter. "I don't like him. He's a smug, arrogant, obnoxious little kitling. A fucking Cat. And I hate the way he was looking at you."

Jaskier's quiet for a long moment, too quiet. Especially for him. Geralt curses under his breath and clenches his eyes shut.

_ Fuck.  _ He's said too much. Always does with Jaskier.

He'd once told Yennefer that he divulged too much to her, but in reality, it's Jaskier who's the one privy to Geralt's occasional moments of vulnerability, moments when he can no longer bottle up his thoughts.

It's Jaskier who knows that Geralt still remembers his mother's face and the once soothing sound of her voice. It's Jaskier who knows that he enjoys honey so much he had once used the last of his coin to purchase a jar of the rare treat rather than rent a room at the inn despite the incoming storm.

Jaskier knows that he prefers the scent of chamomile to any other oil or soap and that he can't stand the smell of lavender. Jaskier knows that he sometimes has nightmares about the Trials making him monstrous, with horns and claws and huge inhuman fangs. Jaskier knows that he sometimes makes the long arduous trek to Kaer Morhen solely to visit the man who's like a father to him.

Jaskier knows all of it and now he would know of Geralt's true feelings. Of his jealousy and possessiveness and the anger that tempted him to physically harm another just for looking at what Geralt selfishly considered his. Jaskier would know and it would prove too much the way Geralt's always feared. He'll leave and Geralt will be alone.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asks softly, his voice little more than a whisper. Unsure in a way that Jaskier rarely is. But he presses on regardless, his brave bard. "Tell me, were you more upset about  _ him? _ Or the way he acted towards  _ me?" _

Geralt opens his eyes. He knows that it's inevitable, Jaskier leaving, but he deserves the truth. At the very least, Geralt can give him that, no matter how much the consequences will hurt.

"The... The second," Geralt admits, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. He can't bear to look at Jaskier in this moment. His anger rises to the surface again as he snaps, "He looked at you like you were a fucking piece of meat, even when it made you uncomfortable! He's a fucking cad! Someone should neuter him like the tomcat he is! He...!"

Geralt trails off for a moment, scrubbing a hand over his face as he collects himself. "He looked at you like you were  _ his.  _ And I hated it because I don't-I don't want you to be his, Jaskier. I don't want you to be anyone's. I-I want you to be  _ mine." _

He's finally turned his gaze back to Jaskier, looking at him imploringly as he breathes the words more than he truly says them, like he's worried that if he says them any louder, any firmer, the words themselves will shatter in thin air.

He waits. Waits for Jaskier to gather his things and leave. Waits for Jaskier to ask him to leave considering he's the one who paid for the room. Waits for Jaskier to laugh or yell or do  _ something. _

He doesn't have to wait very long.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier says softly and Geralt nearly flinches, turning his eyes away. This is it, he knows. Jaskier will tell him he doesn't feel the same way — How could he? How could Geralt ever hope he could? — with pity filling his beautiful blue eyes and dripping from every word and they will part ways and Geralt will lose everything.

Geralt jumps when he feels an arm wrapping around his waist, a warm familiar weight settling against his side. He startles, head whipping to the side to see Jaskier curling up against him, cheek resting on his shoulder.

"I suppose it's a very good thing I told Kazimír that there's another witcher whose bed I would much rather share," Jaskier says matter-of-factly.

Geralt blinks. It takes a moment for the words to settle in, for the realization to dawn like the sun rising above the horizon, spilling its illuminating rays of light across the world. When it does, all Geralt can do is gape at the bard, only managing to speak a single word. "Me?"

Jaskier smiles up at him and rolls his eyes. "No. The other witcher I've spent half of my life traveling with."

Geralt can't resist the soft surprised smile that teases at the corner of his lips, heart swelling in his chest and every inch of him feeling warm and electric. Jaskier isn't finished, prattling on as he's wont to do. "He's wonderful, you know, you'd adore him. Very stalwart and strong, stubborn, a bit grouchy, and just lovely. He's got the biggest heart I've ever known anyone to have. Oh, and those arms of his! It's a wonder I don't swoon every time he swings a sword!"

Jaskier cuts himself off with a burst of laughter when Geralt curls an arm around his middle and tugs him closer, rearranging them until Jaskier's sprawled out on top of him, the two of them pressed together from chest to knee. Geralt gazes up at him, in awe and wonderment, still trying to process what Jaskier had said.

"Do you mean it?" Geralt asks, reaching up to brush his fingertips through Jaskier's soft hair. "You truly want me?"

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier breathes again, cupping Geralt's cheek in his palm. "I've only ever been yours. From the moment I first met you I wanted you. And from the moment you protected me even though I infuriated you I knew I loved you. I've always been yours, I just never imagined you'd ever want to be mine, too."

"I do," Geralt insists, staring up at him the way one does the moon, with longing and love and wonder. "I am. I'm yours."

Smiling brilliantly enough to put the moon and sun and all the millions of stars to shame, Jaskier leans down to kiss his witcher. Geralt smiles into the kiss, feeling lighter than he can ever remember feeling. Jaskier's lips taste like honey and home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
> If you’d like to send me more Geraskier prompts, I’m hale-of-stiles-heart on Tumblr!


End file.
